


The Hurt Detective

by arielgryffinpuff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: About the fight, Angst, Episode Fix-It: s04e03 The Final Problem, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Gen, Guilt, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Looking after Rosie, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Supportive John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 08:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11940672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arielgryffinpuff/pseuds/arielgryffinpuff
Summary: Sherlock still blames himself and won't let John help him as he's still recovering and in pain. John looks at Sherlock with that red blood-shot eye that he gave him, and can barely stand it. But he'll be damned if he doesn't help his best friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I first posted this on ff.net actually straight after the episode 4x02 where me and a lot of people needed a fix-it of some sort. And I updated after the 4x03 episode as well. I have only made slight adjustments/corrections to it. 
> 
> Chapters 1-3 take place after 4x02 but before the very end (meeting Eurus), etc.
> 
> Comments appreciated!

"Sherlock, you've been in there a while-"

"It's my own bedroom, John, what do you expect?" Sherlock scowled. "I'm getting _changed_ ," he replied grumpily from through the door.

John sighed and lent on the wall outside Sherlock's room.

Sherlock carefully pulled the t-shirt over his head and winced at the pain in his ribs. He scowled at the t-shirt, but apparently it's more 'comfortable' and 'breathable' than button-up shirts, so he had to wear comfy 'loose' clothing while he was recovering, including _jogging bottoms._

He was going recover anyway, and the type of clothing was not going to massively alter that, was it?

But John had insisted, so he did what he said, begrudgingly.

Hang on.

Where were his slippers?

His slippers were important. They made his feet warm when they were cold.

He frowned and looked around him. Weren't to be seen. No, not there. Last time he saw them were...Hmm. Don't really know. Can't really...remember.

He shook his head and blinked rapidly as he went over to his bed and bent down to look underneath it. Nope, not there either.

He stood up quickly, and suddenly the whole world tilted and his vision swayed as he fell in front of him - onto the bed - no, he was turning, stumbling - he hit something - _argh_ \- his head was turned towards the blue wall - needed to

process where it would be best to land -

He let out a small gasp and opened his eyes. He was looking at the ceiling. How much time had passed?

He was on his back lying on the floor, and his head felt exceptionally light, and empty. He lifted his hands in front of him. Slight dusting from the carpet, but not ingrained or dark, so he had only just fallen, and can't have been on the floor for more than a few seconds.

Well about half a minute by now.

"Sherlock, the kettle's just boiled."

He heard John's voice and slowly he sat up, and rubbed his throbbing head.

He hasn't had pain meds in a while. He had a thought he would be needing them about now.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"Huh- uh-" Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yea, I'm fine; coming," he called out. He knew they were just trying to help him, but it annoyed him how they treated him like a child all of a sudden, who needed constant attention.

Although, perhaps for a different reason than Rosie.

He did actually like the company though. Makes a change after being in an exhilarating, wild drug haze for weeks, not even able to escape his manic brain for one second.

He stood up painfully as he held onto the wooden edge of his bed. Frowning again, he looked down as he felt his abdomen and ribs, which were still sore from bruising, and - oh. He looked up to the bed. That's where he must have hit his ribs - just now, on the wooden poster at the end of his bed as he apparently had fainted from light-headedness.

He sighed as he pressed a hand to his stomach, and padded over to the back of his door, where his dressing gown was hanging.

He held onto the fur.

But however much he tried, he could still feel the hard _slam_ against his ribs.

No, he can't _think_ about that now!

The painful, tormented shouts coming from John as he hit him against the wall.

No- stop -thinking-about-it-!

But how could he ignore it?

He had caused his only friend - his one _best_ friend - immeasurable pain. He had now caused John two painful losses in his life, and though John had said that Sherlock didn't kill her, he still couldn't imagine.

He loved John Watson as a best friend, his closest companion, like Mary had said. He even felt compassion towards other people, like Mrs Hudson or Lestrade. He knew he would be - well, he couldn't even imagine it - probably somewhere along the lines of  
/being _sad_ -if something happened to them, which is why he tried to protect them.

But for John to lose Mary? His _wife,_ his _love_? The _mother_ of his child?

_She was my friend as well._

He could hardly imagine, and he couldn't blame John for what he did, for being angry, upset.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?!"

He blinked tiredly.

"Er-mm...'m just getting my dressing gown..." Sherlock slurred. John could hear that he was close to do the door so stood away from it as he expected him to come out.

Sherlock pulled the dressing gown down and tried to swing it around him, but it slipped out of his delicate hands and he tried to catch it.

"Wo-" He swayed but his knees buckled and he ended up on the floor, clutching onto the gown as he gasped in pain and crunched forwards, laying his head on his knees, breathing heavily.

There was knocking on the door.

"Sherlock?" John thought he had heard a bump in the room."Oh, for Christ's sakes, I'm coming in."


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock, if you're naked in there-" John started, walking through the opened the door to his room, but then he saw Sherlock curled up on the floor on top of his dressing gown, turned away from him and groaning quietly in pain.

"Sherlock-" John cursed as he closed the door nearly shut behind him and went around his body. Sherlock had his head in his shaking hands, taking deep breaths, and John bent down to try and help him.

"Ok, come on, up you get," he said, putting a hand on Sherlock's arm to try and help him up.

"No - I don't -" Sherlock stuttered as he shrugged off John's arm. "-don't need your help." He looked at him with that bloodshot eye, almost in anger, but John just saw sadness.

"Sherlock - you're injured, and I am your doctor, whether you like it or not," John said informingly, going to help him, and Sherlock just scowled at him and moved his hands to try and move himself.

" _Not_."

He moved onto his back and scrunched his eyes up in pain of his torso and his pounding head.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Did you fall?" John guessed.

He nodded, and put a hand on his stomach, winced.

"Ugh-" He suddenly sat up, and stared straight ahead, putting his hands on the floor to steady himself, his legs underneath him as he shuffled around him. He still felt dizzy, even just from sitting up.

John looked in his eyes and scrutinised them and he blinked.

"Dizziness and fatigue, I'm guessing," he said. But Sherlock suddenly felt more awake, his heart beating steadily but loudly in his ears, his breathing through his nose not fast anymore but still slightly uneven. "Come on, a nice cuppa and a rest on the sofa, I think," John advised.

Sherlock put his hands to his eyes and rubbed them, and opened them to see John looking at him frowningly with resigned lips as he gripped Sherlock's arm firmly with his hand to help him up.

"No - John-"

"Ok, just - come 'ere-" John tried to pull Sherlock up.

"No, John, just get off me!" Sherlock complained, as he shoved John off and looked back at his slightly shocked face and hurt blue eyes. Those dark blue eyes surrounded by deep bags under his eyes and lowered eyebrows, indicating he hadn't got any sleep and he was hurt, but at what, Sherlock could only guess.

He was then reminded of those same crazed dilated-pupated eyes that pushed him against the wall in anger at the hospital, and punched his face _hard_ , not like how he had been punched by John before. This wasn't a little ploy to make him look like he was mugged. This wasn't John attaching him the night he returned for never telling him he was still alive.

This was John in his true, in-built rage and retribution, justice served to him on a plate.

"What's going on with you, Sherlock?" John said worriedly, and Sherlock just frowned at him, and Johnreached out a hand to his shoulder, but Sherlock just flinched away, and hurriedly backed away from him, and stood up, still hunched over slightly, as he backed into the radiator underneath the window, and looked at John anxiously, who held his hands out, frowning furiously in worry at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, it's ok - you're alright," John said, feeling an uneasy sense of de ja vu, as he stepped forward to help him.

"No - just stay back -"

"Sherlock, just stop it alright, I'm not going to _do_ -anything," he assured him nervously, raising his eyebrows and holding his hands up slightly. _Just keep him where you can see him._

"Please, just - come into the lounge, have a sit down on the sofa, and I'll make you a cup of tea - and I'll get some pills for you," John rationalised. "Ok? That's all."

Sherlock looked up to him and blinked slightly, and held his ribs, almost accusingly, and came away from the wall, now the dizziness had subsided, for the moment.

He held in a breath and looked sadly at John.

"I'm sorry."

John shook his head. "Nope."

Sherlock didn't move, and John inhaled deeply. "Can you walk alright?"

Sherlock took a few steps forward slowly. "I can manage."

"Ok," John gestured with his hands to help him, and Sherlock looked scared for a second.

"I'm not going to - Sherlock-"

No snarky remark. No deductions. No _"I know, I'm not stupid, John."_ Just a sad face as he turned and went out of the room, holding onto the banister for support.

"That's it - just to the sofa," John guided as Sherlock went through the main door to his comfy familiar living room and he looked at John nervously, then laid down on the sofa, wrapping his warm dressing gown around him.

"Right. Tea," John said, and with a last concerned look at Sherlock's stubble on his face, the red marks and the bloodshot eyes, Sherlock looked away and John nodded. "Right." He flexed his hands and turned on his heel towards the kitchen. Sherlock could hear him get the mugs and he heard his long, exasperated sigh, as he lent down on the kitchen counter, wondering what he was going to do with him now.

John shouldn't have to be looking after him, Sherlock thought. Sherlock would bet he was still annoyed with him, for nearly getting himself killed on purpose, for lying to him, and as a constant reminder of why Mary died, and Sherlock could tell that he's trying really hard to hold in his feelings of grief and anger. He's trying to be the good man that he always wanted to be, but God knows, it must just be so _hard_ for him.

Sherlock didn't want John to get angry with him again.

But he didn't know what he'd do.

He tried to get up, but his ribs hurt again, and John was just coming into the room with two mugs of tea.

"No, Sherlock," he said, as he put the mugs down.

"John- "

"No, come on, sit down Sherlock- "

"I think you should go."

John just looked at him

"You…You've done enough. To...to help me, I mean. I'll be alright for a while, until someone else gets here." John stared at him. "I know – in fact, I don't know – and I really can't imagine how hard this must be for you, to be with me, and that I'm the last person you want to be _baby-coddling_ at the moment. So please, go home. See Rosie. See your therapist. Get better, John."

"But –b- "John spluttered, momentarily stunned, then regained himself. "Sherlock, you're my _friend_ – I'm not going to leave you," John said, as if he were stating the obvious. Sherlock still looked forlorn, and John sighed and placed his hands on Sherlocks' shoulders to put him back down on the sofa again, and Sherlock looked up and opened his mouth, and shut it again like a goldfish, falling back down against the sofa.

"Right. Here's your two pills. They'll have to last you for four hours I'm afraid, and plenty of bed – or sofa-rest, will make you feel much better. And drink your tea," John ordered, handing him some pills and the mug.

Sherlock looked at him strangely and took the pills, and gulped, then started sipping the tea, relaxing his legs up on the sofa again and leaning back against the pillows slightly.

John pulled up a chair and sat on it at the end of the sofa.

He shuffled and cleared his throat. "Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes flitted to him.

"Ok, just listen to me when I say-"

Sherlock immediately sighed, muttering: "That never usually ends well," under his breath.

"No, Sherlock, really, just _listen_ ," John said firmly. Sherlock looked up. John looked worried.

"Why do you think I don't want to be here?" He questioned. "Why wouldn't I be, Sherlock? You're… all I have left. You know, Mary and I… We talked about you. A lot." Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. "OK, well it mostly making fun of you," John admitted. "And Mary trying to 'deduce' the stains right on the back of Rosie's jumper – Mary's favourite - trying to figure out how it could have possibly got there," John laughed slightly and shook his head, then looked up at him.

"But you, Sherlock,were a part of our family, you were a part of our lives, and Mary – she loved you so much. She was intrigued about you – just like I was, at the start, actually - and she was always going on about some deduction you had recently made. And she took the mick out of you at the same time." John smiled.

Sherlock smiled weakly.

"I've missed her," he said, looking down, then he looked up again. John looked slightly shocked, and was momentarily speechless.

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say.

"I'm sorry- John, I-" His voice broke slightly- "I've caused you so much wrong. So much pain. I don't blame you for – well, for being angry at me."

"I'm not angry at you, Sherlock. Not anymore."

"I never really apologised, did I?" John laughed hollowly at himself. How had he turned into such an idiot lately?

"Sherlock – what I did to you-" He started, and Sherlock looked up. "-I was angry, not at you, but at everything that had been going on lately, I – I wasn't coping very well, without Mary. But I'm better now, you know, I'm…getting there. And I'm _better_ havingyou _in_ my life, and I swear, I'm never going to do hit you like that – without good reason- "Sherlock smiled slightly, " _-ever_ again. I swear, Sherlock." He sighed and put his rubbed his hands on his face.

"Look, John- "

"No, Sherlock, it was - what i did was _inexcusable_ – I could have gone _down_ for that – but I know I went too far, and I'm so sorry. God, what would Mary think?" John questioned to himself aloud.

"I think she would understand. She knows us too well. Besides, it's hardly the first time you've hit me," Sherlock weakly smiled. "I believe the first memory Mary has of me is getting hit by you no less than three times while getting consecutively kicked out of public food-houses because I was an _arse."_

John laughed. "Uh-huh," He shook his head as he laughed again at the memory, but thenit reminded him of something else.

Sherlock smiled back, and drank some more coffee, gulping the warm soft taste down, and it really did make him feel better.

John looked up at him and frowned again, taking in a deep breath as he knew the next conversation was going to be even more _difficult_ , somehow.


	3. Chapter 3

It was getting darker outside, and John was sitting in the armchair that he had moved next to Sherlock, who was watching the TV, resting his head on his hands tiredly, with the blanket around him.

John turned the TV off, and Sherlock blinked. He didn't even know if he'd been paying attention. John was concerned about Sherlock as he had been deep in thought and he just looked tired, and had barely said a word, but blinked every once in a while just to show he was alive.

"It will be time for tea soon, Sherlock," John said to him. "What shall we have? Chips?"

Sherlock looked up to him warily, and looked back down.

"Don't really fancy them anymore…" He said.

"Right… You said you had chips with someone, didn't you? That person you thought was Culverton's daughter?" John asked, trying to solve the mystery.

"Yes. Though, obviously, she wasn't."

"So you were with someone?"

"I couldn't have just dreamt up a whole _person_ , "Sherlock replied indignantly. "But I admit that I may have been hallucinating some of it." He sighed and put his head in his hands and ruffled his head. "I don't _know_ , John. She had a cane, though whether that was real or not, I have no idea, and I told you what she looked like. I'd never seen her before, or at least I thought I hadn't. But we did talk. I did talk to someone. And I was by the river and that's the last thing I remember…" Sherlock trailed off, staring into space trying to remember what happened after that, but his memories were clouded.

"Right," John said, nodding. Sherlock in his drug-induced state could have dreamt up anything, and obviously, some details from that night were a bit fuzzy. But he had talked to someone suicidal. That's what he had said. He said he took them out for chips.

But he could have been alone eating chips.

He could have been speaking to no one but himself, trying to make sense of his thoughts, while dreaming up someone imaginary to make him feel as though he wasn't alone.

And John wasn't there for him.

While jumbling through what he thought had happened that night, Sherlock had said he had threw that woman's gun in the river.

Maybe that wasn't the woman's gun. Maybe it was Sherlock's.

"You got high."

"What?"

"Mary wanted you to go after a big guy. To be a mess. To make me save you, but Sherlock you know what these drugs to do you – you're addicted, you busted your organs, you're immune system is now crap, and you nearly died, for god's sake! If you ever take drugs again, even just once more, you could die."

"I know, that, John."

"Yea, but you're not listening – you didn't have to do that. Mary didn't want that Sherlock."

"She said go to hell."

"And you did. Your own personal hell. Your own head."

Sherlock was quiet.

"You talked to that woman because she was suicidal, or at least, you thought she was. You took her out for chips."

"Well, yes, I thought that would be a good thing," Sherlock looked confused. He had done a good thing, hadn't he? "I wasn't going to let her just go out like that."

"I know. Of course, Sherlock, of course that was a good thing to do, it was a _life_ -saving thing to do. But whose life were you thinking about?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, and closed it again, looking confused.

"I know you don't want to die, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean the problems stop there. I think it's you that needs help."

"What? What sort of help?"

"Therapy."

"Ugh. That's for average-minded people."

John huffed angrily.

"Ok, slightly-above-average minded people, but _I_ am _far_ above average, so-"

"I don't care, Sherlock!" John said, getting annoyed. "You're human! You nearly died to save my life, and in the process you got conflicted about whether you actually should die!"

"John-"

"You felt guilty for Mary's death. I said I didn't want to see you. You felt abandoned. You were depressed, and that scared you, so the drugs were a way out."

"Depressed? Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, then, suicidal."

"No, I wasn't. It was the effect of the drugs, John."

"Oh, was it?" John said, looking away, shaking his head.

"Look, Sherlock, all I know is that once you get into that state,it's hard to come out of it. That state of mind. The negative thinking."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed as he fell back against the cushion on the sofa, crossing his legs.

"Sherlock."

"What."

"It was before all this, wasn't it?" John started. "The wedding. Me and Mary getting married. The baby. You got high then, and don't say it was just for a case." Sherlock scowled. "Even back to Moriarty. You hated him. You tried to figure him out, but you couldn't."

"Yes I could."

John sighed.

"You considered it though, didn't you?"

"John, I'm really not in the mood for this conversation." He turned over to face the wall.

"Well, that's tough," John said. "You must have _thought_ about it before, anyway, because Moriarty actually did make you kill yourself."

"Obviously I didn't," he said through gritted teeth.

"But you still thought about it-"

"Of course I've thought about it before, John! Hasn't everyone?" He lashed out. "How could _I,_ _not_ think about it? When everything seems to point towards it - the drugs. Moriarty wanting me to kill myself to complete the story, to feel shame for being a 'fraud'. Mary wanting me to go to hell, for you. You wanting to get back at me for what I did-"

"Sherlock-"

"I've been in hospital twice now, and it's only you who came, John."

He looked at him, shocked.

"But – but Lestrade- "

"Mycroft never came. He never did _care_."

Caring was for children.

"Of course he cared – he was the one keeping an eye on you!"

"Fat lot of help that did," Sherlock replied slightly bitterly.

John stared at him.

"Sherlock, look at me."

He looked up to see John's serious face, and he wanted to get up from the settee, and with effort, he managed it. John stood up as well, standing next to him.

John cleared his throat."You know, er, my therapist is quite good."

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, I've heard." He sighed."You should go, John."

"Nope, not gonna happen."

"You've been too good tome. You've been with me all day. Just go, get a break."

"See, Sherlock, it is saying thingslike that which is why I am not leaving."

"Well, I thought that would persuade you to go, but…" He went over and put his hand on the doorknob. "I have someone else to look after me now, so you don't _have_ to worry."

He opened the door just as Mycroft was about to knock.

"Bye, then. Nice chat," Sherlock said promptly with a forced smile.

"Wait," Mycroft said. Sherlock looked at him.

"Oh, not you too," he complained.

Mycroft came in with his umbrella, closing the door behind him.

"Any drugs?" He asked dryly.

"No," John said, folding his arms. "He's clean, and so is the flat."

"Good."

"I've also cleaned up his chemistry mess."

"What? No, no, no, you didn't get rid of that chemical formulaI was making, John that was _important_ -"

"I'm not having you playing with harmful chemicals – Sherlock, I found the carbon monoxide."

Mycroft closed his eyes.

"John, that was for an experiment!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"No, it wasn't!" John took a deep breath. "I don't care what it was for, you're not having any of it back, and anyway,I threw most of it away, so tough." Sherlock scowled. "And I'm staying here, and neither of you can make me leave," he looked from Sherlock to Mycroft with a stern look.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows innocently. "I wasn't going to make you leave. On the contrary, I think it would be best if you did stay."

John nodded. "Well, good."

"How much of the conversation did you hear, outside?" Sherlock piped up, frowning at Mycroft.

Mycroft looked confused. "I don't know what you're talking-"

"Yes, you do."

They looked at each other.

"Sherlock-"

"No, I know that tone."

John looked between the two brothers' staring contest and decided to intervene.

"Tea."

They looked at him.

"We need food. I'll go and get a Chinese, shall I, Sherlock? Won't be long," John said, getting his jacket on as Sherlock followed him.

"No, Sherlock, you can't come with me."

"I know, I just wanted to go to the bathroom," He said, as he smiled fakely and went over to the bathroom, as he heard John sigh, and watched him descend the stairs.

A few minutes later Sherlock stumbled into the living room and looked tiredly at Mycroft sitting on the end of his sofa.

"That's my settee. Move," he said irritably, collapsing on the soft cushioned seat and putting his legs up to push Mycroft out the way. Mycroft looked down at the umbrella in his hands which he was turning around with his fingers.

"Sherlock-"

" _Move!_ " He said, kicking his legs at him, and Mycroft sighed heavily and got up, and Sherlock stretched his legs and pulled his blanket around him, then went to pick up the remote controller, but Mycroft got there first.

"If you're going to give me a lecture, then forget it," Sherlock said dryly, and Mycroft's face fell. "John beat you to it." He held out his hand for the remote, but Mycroft just sat down in the armchair with it in his hand.

Sherlock sighed.

"I'm afraid I've let you down, again," Mycroft said sadly, looking up at him. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. But I'm here now. And I'm going to stay here, I'm not going to abandon you."

Of course he wasn't. He never did; not when he most needed him.

"People keep saying that," Sherlock said, frowning at him scrutinisingly.

"Well, we… _mean_ it this time. And it's not going to change," Mycroft said seriously. Sherlock slowly nodded, looking down at his hands. He didn't really know what to say; he wasn't good at this, especially with his brother.

Then, his phone beeped. He looked around, confused. Where was it?

He suddenly got off the sofa and fell onto the ground with a small grunt as his stomach seemed to slowly rip. He hurriedly looked underneath the sofa.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Mycroft asked exasperatedly.

"Looking for pixies, I heard they like hiding under settees…" he muttered, stretching his hand out to feel for his phone. He sighed. His ribs started to hurt, and he closed his eyes painfully, as his head started to swim.

"I believe this is your phone…" Mycroft said, as he pulled it out from underneath the coffee table and looked at Sherlock, who was bent down and breathing rapidly, holding onto his side.

"Sherlock," he scowled, putting the phone down and going to help him. He bent down and put his hands on Sherlock's arm, but he just flinched away.

"I don't _need help_ ," he said angrily, looking up at him, his eyes blazing into his and watering with pain.

"Of course you don't," Mycroft replied evenly, frowning at the pain in his little brother's bloodshot eye, and he promptly sighed and pulled Sherlock up under his arm and he felt his ribs through his shirt as he put a gentle hand on him arm and heaved him up on the sofa, and his brother sat heavily down, closing his eyes.

"There's nothing wrong," Sherlock shook his head, as Mycroft gently pushed him down against the sofa, as he put his legs up and relaxed.

"Obviously," he said sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at him, as he pulled the blanket and tucked it around him neatly, making sure it covered all of his body, right up to his chin, and he lifted Sherlock's head as he moaned, eyes still scrunched up, and Mycroft put another pillow beneath his head, and laid it back down. He kept his hand on Sherlock's head, with his familiar curly hair, as Sherlock's eyes relaxed and he suddenly yawned loudly.

"Go to sleep, brother mine," he said, smiling sadly, as he stroked his hair and sighed. Sherlock sniffed and put his head to the side on the soft cushion, holding onto the blanket around him. His eyes felt as if they were glued shut as he realised he was suddenly amazingly tired, and the last thing he felt was his brother's warm hand on his head as he fell effortlessly into a deep sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after 4x03: The Final Problem.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"What you did...for me-"

"It wasn't for you. It was the obvious solution. She didn't want me dead."

He twiddled with his umbrella. "You can't have known that, Sherlock. She was _beyond_ psychotic, no one could have known what she wanted, or the lengths she would have gone to."

"I know," he replied matter-of-factly. Then he looked at Mycroft, really looked at him, and frowned. "It was a risk I was willing to take."

"Yes, you're rather good at doing that," he said dryly, but his expression turned soft. "You really scared me, you know." Sherlock's eyes flitted to his. "You need to stop doing things like that, Sherlock. I don't think my heart can take it." He rubbed his chest for emphasis, and raised his eyebrows at him.

"I'll...try."

"Besides, Sherlock - how could you think that your life was less valuable than mine?"

"If I were to shoot you, then who would get me out of jail?"

" _Sherlock_ ," Mycroft scolded him angrily.

The little brother smiled.

"You're my big brother," he explained simply. "John is my best friend. There's nothing I wouldn't do for the either of you."

"O-Oh, well, er..." Mycroft cleared his throat and tried to look for the right words.

"You're welcome, I think," Sherlock supplied, going to the door of his office.

"Of course - Sherlock-"

He turned back. "I know. You'd do the same for me. You _did_ do the same for me."

Mycroft nodded sincerely, and Sherlock walked out through the door, calling after him:

"Have a nice date, _Mycroft_."

Mycroft chuckled, looking at the door, but he had already gone. He sighed, looking again at the note from Lady Smallwood, and he walked forwards to straighten his tie professionally in the mirror.

"Time for battle."


	5. Chapter 5

"Mycroft is on a date?"

"…Yes."

John still couldn't believe it. He knew that Mycroft had had some time off lately, to…recover from the recent stress that he's not exactly used to, but he never actually thought that he would take comfort in Lady Smallwood. So she had in fact gotten over the fact that he had suspected her of foul play.

"So, what do you think – Sherlock?" he asked, looking around but Sherlock wasn't there. He had probably gone into his room. John shh'd Rosie who was falling asleep in his arms and rocked her from side to side, and slowly made his way out of the room and upstairs to his own room where he put her safely in her cot.

He quietly went down the stairs and went to Sherlock's room and knocked.

"Sherlock?" He opened the door slowly and Sherlock was on his bed, looking at something.

"What's that?" John said, coming over to him, and he frowned at the picture that Sherlock was holding. It was a photo of two children, one of them with dark curly hair wearing a pirate hat, and the other a blonde boy of about the same age.

Sherlock showed the picture to him, and John held it.

"Mycroft gave it to me. He kept it all these years, in case one day the truth would come out, and I would need it again."

John looked sceptically at it. "Is this you? And -and- "

"Yes, that's me, and…Victor Trevor. My best friend."

"Redbeard…" John said, looking at him.

"Yes."

John swallowed and handed the photo back to him.

"Are you alright?" John asked, concerned.

"I'm fine, John, thank you."

"Wanna come and watch some TV? Have a cuppa?"

"No, I'm alright," Sherlock said, getting up and smiling at him. "I think I'm going to get some rest now."

"Oh – of course, yea," John replied, nodding. "Night, then."

"Goodnight."

Sherlock sighed as John went out the door and closed it behind him. His throat had caught and he had to fight back tears. Every time he thought about it, he thought he might be remembering something new, and he wanted to hold on to that memory.

Sherlock woke with a start and heard an ear-screeching high-pitched screaming.

"Ugh…" He moaned, getting out of bed and opening the door, and the wailing just increased. "John, I can barely hear myself think- "

"Probably a good thing!"

"Can't you just make her _shut up_?" He asked irritably, storming into the living room, as John was changing her nappy.

"Little help, here?"

"Definitely not."

"Perfect, I've just got to grab some things…" John said, leaving to jump up the stairs two at a time.

"John- "

The baby screamed even louder.

"OK, ok, please, just stop screaming," Sherlock cooed. "Rosie, little Rosie, what's that, erm, nursery rhyme…" Sherlock trailed off, trying to think of it. He must have put that out of his memory as well. Rosie wailed again, and Sherlock was reminded of the problem at hand. "Right," he said, holding his hands in the air. "Baby. Nappy." He picked up the dirty nappy and hurriedly wrapped it in the plastic bag. "Ugh- " He wrinkled his nose furiously, and put it in the bin. "Right. Baby. _Nappy_."

Five minutes later John came downstairs with a bag and Sherlock was looking at Rosie, who was lying on the table, quiet, but looking wide-eyed at them.

"What did you do?"

Sherlock looked confused. "I put on a fresh nappy, just like you said."

"She stopped crying."

Sherlock looked at him.

"How did you get her to stop crying?!"

"I don't know! She just - stopped. How am I supposed to know how these _strange_ creatures work?"

John shook his head and stroked Rosie's cheek.

"So, are you ready to go?"

"What to?"

"Don't tell me you've forgot Sherlock, cause I'm not believing it for one second - the therapy!"

"Oh – that – yea, I thought I'd give that a miss," he said, and went into the kitchen.

"No, Sherlock, you're going to see this therapist, we talked about this," John said firmly. "Remember? She's an expert in dealing with traumatic childhood experiences."

"Well I'm not a 'traumatised child'," Sherlock argued, holding up his hands in remission. He was glaring at John and John pointed to his hand, which was clutching the photograph.

"You wanna try that again?" He challenged. Sherlock looked down to the photo he wasn't aware he'd been holding, and looked at it longingly again.

"Fine. Fine!" Sherlock stormed angrily to his room and grabbed his coat. John smiled triumphantly.

Half an hour later they were waiting at the therapists' surgery. Rosie was in her carrier next to John while they were sitting in the waiting chairs. There was no one around.

"You know, Mycroft has really surprised me lately. What with everything that's been going on. What he said about me when we were at Sherrinford…"

"You know he didn't mean that, John."

"Oh – yea, I know, of course. It's just – he surprised me. I didn't really expect him to say that. And I didn't expect him to do it to save my life.

"You two brothers…You both think you're just these clever geniuses – well, you are clever geniuses, of course you are – but I've honestly never met two braver people – who don't even know how brave they are."

Sherlock opened his mouth.

"W-well, er – thank you, John. That means a lot."

John nodded. "I wanted to er – thank you, actually. And Mycroft. I just – you would rather shoot your own brother than me – and you were actually going to shoot yourself, god, Sherlock, i- "

"You know I wasn't going to do it, I was just playing the game. I knew Eurus wouldn't let me die…I knew that, somehow, there was something between us. A connection maybe, I don't know."

"I know you did. But please, god, do not do that to me again, Sherlock. You need to just…take a step back."

Sherlock looked confused.

"I mean – not from solving murders, of course not. Just stop getting into so much – well, trouble! Danger! Stop taking risks, please? I know it's our job - but, just be more _diligent_ about your own safety."

"You're starting to sound a lot like my mother."

"Sherlock. Please."

He shrugged lightly and looked away. "I can try."

John gave him a look. He sighed heavily.

"Fine, fine, I'll do better."

"Like stop trying to get yourself killed?"

"Yes. That, I will do." He looked back at Rosie with a smile. "Of course I will."

"Ok, good," John looked back at Rosie as well, and frowned. "If there's ever anything you need to talk about – you know you can come to me, don't you?"

"Now you're starting to sound like my therapist," Sherlock complained.

John sighed at him. "You know it's important that you do talk about it though. Nothing left in the dark. Mrs Hudson was right. You are about the feelings. And I … want you to know that –"

"Now it sounds like a declaration..." Sherlock scoffed.

"What – no – what I mean- "John heaved a sigh. "You know what? I'm going to stop talking now. This is what the therapist is for. You know where I stand, Sherlock. I am your friend, and I am here for you."

"Are you sure that's all you wanted to say?" Sherlock drawled, sighing himself.

"Wha- yes – wait – I- well- "

"Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, that's me," Sherlock flashed a smile at John. "Laters, then."

"Yea," John frowned at him. He sighed and puffed his cheeks.

Sherlock was someone who he was never going to figure out. He had got better at the mysteries, the deductions. But he never knew what Sherlock meant sometimes. Or maybe he didn't even want to think about it. Or maybe Sherlock was hurting still. John suddenly turned his attention back to Rosie, who started to cry out with her hands, and John picked her up in his arms and rocked her from side to side, shushing her.

He wondered how Sherlock was fairing, though to be honest he was really counting the seconds of how long it would take for Sherlock to walk out of the therapist's office. Or maybe he'd get through the whole thing, with minimal deductions, but rather deducing that he needs the help. 

And then of course he'd deny it was any help afterwards, probably complaining about her lack of expertise. But he'd be better maybe. He'd come to therapy again. He'd be more open. Things would get back to normal - but it would be a _better_ normal, no secrets, just two partners crime-solving.

With a side of raising a child.


End file.
